


let them call us funny things

by miriad



Category: People Will Talk (1951)
Genre: Discussions of death, F/M, Noah tries to be a good man, Set before the Movie, discussions of cadavers, discussions of corporal punishment, filling in some of the blanks, offscreen death of character only mentioned in the film
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21830482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriad/pseuds/miriad
Summary: He had to come from somewhere, couldn't have sprung fully formed from the head of a god. Or could he?A few stops on the way to becoming Noah Praetorius.
Relationships: Deborah Higgins/Andrew (Baby's father), Noah Praetorious/Deborah Higgins, Noah Praetorious/Hangman's Daughter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moon_custafer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_custafer/gifts).



> Thank you so much to zoe for their help with beta work and hand holding. You are a peach!
> 
> This movie is one of my all time favorites, and it just gets better and better as I get older and have more experience with people and the world. It has been a genuine pleasure to play with this universe a bit and try my hand at these characters. 
> 
> moon_custafer, I truly hope you enjoy this and that it's even close to what you were hoping for! Happy Yuletide!

**January 1932**

Mary Ellen Mulvaney is the sweetest thing Noah's seen since he first came to Canada.

A co-ed at the University of Toronto, they’d run into each other on campus often enough that he knew what the looks Mary Ellen shot him meant. He’d asked her out to coffee, more a study date than anything else, really. Over coffee and croissants, he’d realized that the cut of her jib was more than enough reason to ask her out again, on a proper date.

As Noah’s graduation date creeped slowly but surely, closer, he and Mary Ellen keep dating, long enough that it started to become serious. At least, serious enough that both their parents entered into the equation – he'd met hers, and told her about his, despite the bad blood between him and his father. Noah’s skin crawls whenever he can’t get out of talking about his father; there's a reason he enrolled in a Canadian medical school, rather than back home in the States.

His attendance at the Mulvaney’s Sunday dinner has become expected, despite how worn his Sunday best currently is. Mr. & Mrs. Mulvaney are kind enough not to mention it – they know he’s in school to be a doctor – and Mrs. Mulvaney and Mary Ellen never fail to cook a delicious meal.

He’s enjoying Mrs. Mulvaney’s pot roast and the now-familiar routine of Sunday dinner, when Mary Ellen clears her throat, in a way that makes it clear she’s signaling _something_. Noah’s stomach swoops a bit.

He likes Mary Ellen, he _does -_ but he’s not completely sold on their relationship becoming serious, rather, _officially_ serious, he supposes.

The small voice of his conscience reminds him that if he didn’t want this to be serious, he probably shouldn’t have invited her back to his room at the boarding house after a dinner date, and let her play doctor, with him as the very naked patient.

He’s pulled out of his somewhat-panicked thoughts when Mr. Mulvaney sets his fork down next to his plate, clearing his own throat.

“Noah, Mary Ellen here tells me you have a bit of a situation at school.”

Noah raises his eyebrows and looks at Mary Ellen, entirely at a loss for what Mr. Mulvaney’s talking about. She meets his gaze, nodding as if to say _go on, tell him_. Which would work just fine, if he had any inkling what the hell she wanted him to tell her father.

“Sir, I’m not sure what you’re referring to - I’m doing well in my courses, still on the Dean’s list this semester, and don’t have-“

“Daddy, just tell him, would you please?” Mary Ellen interrupts, in an impatient tone, that somehow stays polite. Noah would _love_ to know how she managed to pull that off.

“Mary Ellen tells me that you don’t have a body of your own, down at the school. For looking at… “ He gestures vaguely with one hand, “parts and things. Anatomy.” The word sounds awkward on Mr. Mulvaney’s tongue, like he hasn’t quite gotten used to saying it. Noah begins to realize what Mr. Mulvaney’s talking about, and the worry that had previously set up camp in his stomach when Mary Ellen coughed began to be replaced by a growing sense of hope.

“Uh, yes, that’s correct, sir,” Noah says, hurriedly wiping at his mouth with his napkin. “It’s difficult to get access to a cadaver that other students haven’t already taken a turn at, which makes really learning the human body that much harder. A number of other students have arranged for private cadavers, for their sole use, and it’s something I’ve been considering for a while now.”

More like dreaming about, as there isn’t even the slim possibility Noah could obtain one, at least, not without asking his father, which is out of the question. Private cadavers are expensive, so much so that Noah doesn’t have a chance in hell of scraping together the funds to procure one before his exams.

He’d resigned himself to finding some way to make do with the cadavers previously examined by other students, which he knew would be the case ever since he’d been accepted to the University's medical school. But the kernel of hope he’d kept squashed begins to bloom there at the Mulvaney’s dinner table, quietly hoping that maybe, _maybe -_

“What has Mary Ellen told you about what I do, Noah?”

“Well, sir, she really hasn’t said much. You work for the province, but beyond that -“

Mr. Mulvaney cuts him off. “I work for the provincial prison, and among the various hats I wear is hangman, when it’s needed.” 

Noah blinks, twice, and draws in a deep breath.

“We always have cases where, following an execution, there aren’t any relatives or friends to claim the body of the deceased. Most of the time there just isn’t anyone left to claim them, and when there might be someone out there, they either can’t afford the burial or don’t want to admit to that association.”

Mr. Mulvaney gives Noah a _look_ , like Noah should be suddenly understanding what he’s implying. Mary Ellen grabs his hand under the table and squeezes it. Noah can feel her stare on the side of his face and feels the heat of the blush creeping up his neck under all this scrutiny.

“Are you saying, sir, that you have an unclaimed body that you’d like me to claim? As my cadaver?”

“That’s exactly it!” Mr. Mulvaney smiles at him and leans back in his seat. Noah feels shaky, through his whole body, but finally looks at Mary Ellen, who is practically glowing. He smiles back at her, his own glow growing to equal hers, and squeezes her hand.

“What do I need to do to take care of this?”

“Well, the man isn’t a cadaver just yet. He’s set to hang next week. But if you can arrange for the space to keep the cadaver, and we can fill out the appropriate paperwork, the transfer of the body after the hanging shouldn’t be an issue.”

Noah feels the smile freeze on his face. The man isn’t dead yet? He has to wait for a man to be killed in order to get his body?

“What did this man do, if I might ask that in advance? Just a bit of morbid curiosity,” Noah says with the best smile he can muster. His free hand curls around his fork, knuckles white around the polished silver.

“Charles, darling, is this really appropriate dinner conversation?” Mrs. Mulvaney asks, her face holding a smile that looks like Noah feels.

“Nonsense, Eleanor. It’s business.”

Noah wants to say, _it’s not business! It’s a man’s life!_ He wants to say, _the lack of concern over the ending of a man’s life and the selling of his body to a college student to cut into pieces, without his consent or knowledge is disgusting!_

He wants to say all those things, but he can’t make his mouth move around them. He can’t stand up and tell Mr. Mulvaney that this is appalling. He can’t look at Mary Ellen and know that he’s broken her heart when he offends her father by spitting on his offer.

Noah wants to stand on his morals. He wants to with each breath that moves through his lungs, at this dinner table. But he knows that if he just had his own body, if he just had his chance, he’d be the kind of doctor that could change the lives of his patients in amazing ways. He knows it with every cell in his body.

His pride will not let him toss this opportunity away, because the net good is, in his mind, right here, right now, so much greater than the net loss.

He waits for Mr. Mulvaney’s answer. Maybe if the crime is awful enough, it will wash the sour taste out of his mouth.

“The man was convicted of murder. Beat a man to death with a policeman’s club, of all things. Strange case.” Mr. Mulvaney takes a bite of his own pot roast and then of mashed potatoes, as if the whole conversation isn’t appetite killing in and of itself.

Murder. That’s one of the worst crimes, Noah decides, and of course, someone who kills another person should be put to death. If their death could then help other lives be saved, wouldn’t that be some kind of redemption?

“I can make arrangements with the school,” Noah says, then takes a long drink from his water glass. It tastes metallic and stale, and he coughs a bit.

“Wonderful! After dinner, I’ll get you all the relevant details and we’ll shake on the arrangement.”

“Oh, Daddy, thank you for considering it and making this happen! Noah, this is so exciting!” Mary Ellen’s eyes are glowing with pride and joy. She’s genuinely excited for him and it doesn’t seem like the man’s death, murderer or no, has affected her at all. A sliver of Noah’s affection for her dims a bit, in that moment, and he struggles to return her enthusiasm, real or otherwise.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Noah echoes. If nothing else, he decides, he has to make the man’s death worth something. He has to make his medical practice and study as learned and helpful as he can, so that the man’s sacrifice of his life will be meaningful and worth something.

 _No man should be so lonely that even in death, he has no one,_ Noah thinks, not sure what to do about it but knowing that he can’t just move through the world as a medical professional and not try to change it.

* * * * * 

**February 1932**

This isn’t exactly the way Noah saw this whole thing going, if he’s going to be honest with himself.

He can still see the tooth marks on his finger but he can’t focus on that or he’s going to go crazy. He’s not a doctor just yet but he’s far enough along that he knows at least a few things, including that a man who was supposed to be hung and was supposed to be dead but clearly isn’t maybe needs a little help and some care.

And kindness. A lot of kindness.

He’s pulled a few sheets out of the cabinet, hoping that doubling up on them will give the same effect as a blanket. Noah’s afraid to ask anyone else for help because what will they have to do then?

He understands that maybe he’s supposed to be calling the prison or the police. At the very least, he should be telling Mary Ellen’s father that he didn’t actually do his job that morning.

But what would that do? What would that mean for this poor man, sitting there in the battered wooden chair, eyes vacant, shivering, but breathing? Would they try again? Would they send him someplace else and try a different manner of execution?

Noah decides that this is providence. This man was not supposed to die. In fact, Noah starts to think that perhaps, this man was supposed to be here the same time Noah was, so they could meet and start traveling forward through life together.

Kismet, perhaps, and that’s not something one should ignore lightly.

Or, more appropriately, ignore at your own peril.

The kettle perched precariously over the bunsen burner on the desk in the corner whistles shrilly, making Noah jump. The man on the chair doesn’t seem to move, although Noah watches him blink, enough to know that he’s alive, even if he isn’t quite responding to external stimuli.

Noah takes down two cracked mugs from the student cabinet in the corner, drops a bag of tea into each, and pours equal measures of steaming hot water over both. He sets both mugs on the metal table to the left of where he’s got the man sitting, wrapped up like some kind of neglected mummy, and pulls up another creaky wooden chair. He settles himself on the edge of it delicately.

“I know this must be confusing, maybe even frightening, but I promise, I am here to help,” Noah starts. For the first time, after that initial bite, the man has a reaction to Noah’s presence. He turns his head to look at Noah, tilting his head to the side not unlike Noah’s father’s German shepherd. “Can you tell me your name?”

The man frowns, clearly thinking about the question before trying to answer. He opens his mouth to say something but no sound comes out. The man frowns. Noah wants to smack himself- of course he can’t talk! He almost hung by the neck, to his death, not even twelve hours ago! Noah grabs one of the mugs of tea and holds one out, slowly and carefully, but clearly as a gesture that the mug is meant for the other man.

It takes a little wriggling to get an arm free, but after a minute or two, the man has a free hand to take the mug from Noah. Despite being clearly traumatized, his hands are steady as he takes ownership of his own mug.

He sips on the tea, seemingly unphased by the heat of the water or the lack of honey or milk. After six or seven long sips on the tea, he rests the mug on his sheet clad knee and tries talking again.

“Shunderson.” His voice is raspy and uneven, but it’s actual sound and it makes Noah smile. “My name,” he continues, “is Shunderson.”

Noah reaches out to pat the man’s- Shunderson’s- knee and cackles a bit, the emotion and satisfaction of the moment, knowing they’re getting somewhere, overcoming any sense of propriety Noah may have felt at any point previously.

“Well, Shunderson, I think we have a lot to talk about, but please, drink your tea. We can get into the dirty details once you’ve got a bit more gas in the tank.”

Shunderson doesn’t say anything, just takes another drink of tea and closes his eyes as he swallows. Noah picks up his own mug but holds it under his nose, letting the steam envelop his face.

One thing at a time, he decides. Life has decided to remind him that humans can plan all they’d like but the universe will always just laugh and do what it wants anyway. The only thing a person can do is accept that chaos is the only constant and do their best to be kind.

Shunderson hasn’t seen a kindness in a long time, Noah guesses, and decides that no matter what, he will not let Shunderson go back to prison. He will not let him go back to the noose. He will not let anyone, government official or not, harm one more hair on Shunderson’s head.

It’s in that moment that Noah Praetorius finds at least one part of his true calling, a more specialized field of medicine than the one he’d been training in for the past few years.

He realizes there’s a hole in his education, in the topics covered in his lectures and by his professors, specifically regarding patients and justice and the role doctors play in making sure their patients find the justice they deserve and maintain the honor and dignity they inherently hold as human beings, not just as pegs on a board to be moved around a hospital but as people who love and hurt and desire and need to be cared for, no matter how large or small their bodies or their bank accounts.

It’s surely a mental situation but Noah feels it inside his body as clearly as if someone’d pricked his finger with a pin or stomped on his toes with wooden heels. And even beyond that, it’s as if his eyes have been replaced with a different model: the colors around him seem brighter, the sounds more clear, and Shunderson, sitting in the chair across from him, holding his now empty cup, seems more alive than even that moment when he first bit Noah’s finger.

The world has shifted and Noah won’t be able to go back, not now, not ever.

He sips his tea and leans back in his chair. They’ll need to figure this out- Noah has no idea how to hide a person who is supposed to be dead, although he’s sure he can come up with something if push comes to shove and he guesses it had- but they can take a minute and just breathe.

Just. Breathe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deborah deserves a bit more love and a bit more context, I think.

**1951**

The hardest part about everything for Deborah is just how quickly it’s all taken place. She’d loved Andrew, despite how briefly they’d known each other. He’d been scared to leave for the army, scared to head out to battle, after watching his own father return from the Second World War, shell-shocked and miserable.

He’d wanted comfort and Deborah had been glad to give it, a spark of hope inside of her praying that Andrew would come home safe and happy and they’d make it official, perhaps a wedding and a little house in country with a cute garden and a dog and maybe even a few children running around.

They’d had a lovely evening, with a sweet little dinner at a restaurant near the University. Andrew had bought a bottle of wine and asked to open it himself, but Deborah could see his hands shaking as he worked the cork out of the bottle.

After dinner, they’d retreated back to his efficiency apartment, his things already packed but neatly tucked away, so as to not ruin the mood of the night. He’d put on a record, one of her favorites, and they’d danced in candlelight until the wine finally kicked in and they each seduced the other.

Andrew had kind hands. That was one of the strongest memories she had of that part of the night. He’d held her as if she were made of glass but also as if she were an equal in the passion they were creating. He kissed her ‘til she was breathless and she’s pressed her lips to his naked skin from the tips of his ears all the way down to his ankles.

They did things she’d only read about in the blue books her friend Margaret had snuck out of her brother’s room, and Deborah had enjoyed everyone one of them. They’d made love over and over, all night long, until Andrew had held her and cried in her arms.

His father had taken his own life a few years after the war and his mother had died when he was young. He didn’t have any other family to call his own, so when he’d filled out all his paperwork with the Army he didn’t have anyone to write down as a recipient of his things, should he die in combat, or anyone to even tell that he was dead.

Deborah had cried herself at that, her heart breaking at just how alone the man was and how worthy of being part of something she knew him to be.

“Put my name down,” she’d said, her voice low and as soothing as she could make it. “I’ll be here for you, come rain or shine. But I know you’ll come back to me,” she’d said, kissing him deeply and pressing her body against his again.

Unfortunately, she’d been wrong.

He’d shipped out the next morning and based on the telegram she’d received, he hadn’t been on Korean soil more than five days before he’d caught stray shrapnel in the neck and that had been the end of that.

She’d barely been pregnant enough to even take the test, let alone for it to show as positive. It had crossed her mind when she’d started to feel under the weather, but she’d written it off as paranoia and depression.

Then she’d passed out in the anatomy class, had her diagnosis from Noah, had him lie to her that the test had been wrong, had him follow her home to the farm, been whisked away with her father to a home far nicer and loving all around than the one she’d been residing in for so long, gotten married, and once again, she was pregnant.

Andrew had only been dead a month and a half when she said “I do” to Noah in the city.

It’s difficult when she thinks about it. She feels disloyal to him, to the fragile relationship and, frankly, family they had started that night, despite his having passed away. She’s not sure what she’s supposed to tell her baby about him, if she should lie and tell him that Noah is his father and not ever mention Andrew, or find a way to explain Andrew but have to reveal all of the parts of that story that she’s not particularly proud of.

But what is her pride against the memory of a man who had no one else left in the entire world and who’d asked Deborah to be, for all intents and purposes, his family? Didn’t she owe Andrew more than a few tears and a hidden telegram in the back of her closet? She’d promised that she’d be waiting and she’d gone and married another man before Andrew was even cold in his grave.

It feels like a thing she should bring up with Noah, but he’s got a lot on his mind. Ellwell’s hearing is tonight and so is the concert, and Noah is preoccupied with both things, which means he doesn’t really need another ball to juggle.

Or is she just being a coward again?

She wonders if the baby will have Andrew’s coloring: fair skin, faintly freckled; green eyes; a reddish blond hair that curls ever so slightly. He was so different from Noah, in looks and temperament, that she can’t help but worry that the child will know before he’s even five that Noah isn’t his biological father.

She wonders if it evens really matters at all. Noah will have some kind of answer for the child, depending on what they decide, and he’ll own it as far as he needs to take it to make everyone feel just fine. It’s a gift he has, one that probably saved her life, if she’s being honest with herself.

She dresses for the concert without really thinking about it, which is fine, since she’d set out her clothes long before the idea of Ellwell’s witch hunt had ever crossed her mind. Noah’s ready to leave before she is, which is common, but he doesn’t seem even the slightest bit worried about anything.

Shunderson- quiet, sweet Shunderson- is dressed, as always, in a well-tailored suit and handmade shoes, his hair neat and tidy. He doesn’t say anything to her but he doesn’t have to. He stands close to her while Noah gathers their coats, a tall, solid presence whom Deborah can lean on. She stands to his left and she can see tufts of fur signaling the dog is on his right.

Shunderson should be unsettling. He should make Deborah ask questions, make her demand answers of Noah.

There isn’t a thing she needs anyone to tell her about that man that could convince her that he isn’t a solid, sweet, devoted human being who, for whatever reason, Noah cares for and protects. It’s clear that Shunderson returns those feelings and between the two of them, a family and a love has grown. The most magical part of all of that is how they’ve opened their arms, both of them, to let her into their little circle of family.

Noah passes around coats, and asks Shunderson to collect the car, then offers Deborah his arm, and smiles at her. He could light a room with that smile, she thinks, and smiles back at him. Her chest is still tight, the worry still making a home there, claws firmly attached to her ribs, but how can she possibly worry about anything when a man as smart and handsome as Noah Praetorious is looking at her like she hung the moon?

She’s lived her life worrying about everything and so far, it’s all worked out the way she imagines it’s supposed to. She’s here in this man’s life, married and happy and loved, something she’d never have guessed about herself even six months ago. She’s not happy about Ellwell or his investigation, but she’s starting to believe that everything happens for a reason, even if that reason is something she’ll never, ever know.

“Kiss me,” she tells him, as she hears the car pull up front.

“Always,” he tells her and leans in. She forgets for a moment that she’s supposed to be worried. Which is kind of the point.

~ fin ~


End file.
